


Alone in the Palace

by kitkattaylor



Category: Troyler - Fandom
Genre: Ballet, Billy Elliot - Freeform, M/M, dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 05:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10326281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkattaylor/pseuds/kitkattaylor
Summary: A short story





	

_Arms folded, on tiptoe, she dreamily and slowly circles the stage. By even, gliding motions of the hands, returning to the background from whence she emerged, she seems to strive toward the horizon, as though a moment more and she will fly—exploring the confines of space with her soul. The tension gradually relaxes and she sinks to earth, arms waving faintly as in pain. Then faltering with irregular steps toward the edge of the stage—leg bones quiver like the strings of a harp—by one swift forward-gliding motion of the right foot to earth, she sinks on the left knee—the aerial creature struggling against earthly bonds; and there, transfixed by pain, she dies.  
_

 

Dust circled around his ankles as he danced, bare feet scratched with the gravel and dirt. The sun bore down on his back, shimmering with sweat. Closing his eyes, he scrunched up his forehead and pounded his feet on the ground. Little stones jumped with his weight, skittering to the side to watch.

Opening his arms, he spun around. Dropping his head back so his eyelids burnt orange with the sun, he breathed shallowly and spun quicker. He didn't know any steps, he just knew the beat; the _feeling_. Between his teeth was a small, battered MP3 player, from which his headphones linked to his ears. His mum would tell him off for playing it so loud, for deafening his ear drums, but how dare she when he had to drown out the noise somehow? The shouting from the bedroom beside his?

He had a world in his head – glowing and warm with no space for silence – but around him was desolate surroundings. Collapsed brick walls and abandoned scaffolding; fading graffiti on walls where weeds spilled through the gaps. Broken beer bottles clinked as they rolled in the corners, nestled in piles of ash and plastic waste. His mum would tell him off for coming here too; for walking so far with no shoes, for choosing such a dangerous space to play in. But Troye didn't think she was allowed to be mad when she'd put her feet up on the table, filling the room with smoke, ignoring everything he had to say. Telling him to sit down and enjoy the cartoons wasn't enough for him. He couldn't sit still; he hated how small the walls pressed in.

Thrusting one foot in front of him and then the other, Troye hopped between his legs, lifting his arms above him into various shapes. He didn't like watching the TV, he didn't like the cartoons; but he loved the ballet. _The ballet._ Channel number 172. The black and white images of a stage, an audience, high ceilings and shiny floors. Feathered girls like birds, like gazelles, sewing lace with their feet, connecting constellations with their arms. The men, flying and leaping through the air, unbound by gravity, by rules. Troye would watch and hum along to the orchestra, gliding and billowing out through the tinny speakers. He could hear the music now; filling the air around him, lifting his skinny arms higher, his nine year old body faster. He jumped onto one of the lines of bricks, frantically tapping his feet, copying the motions he'd seen those ethereal figures dancing. He was surrendered to the movement, lost within it. He didn't notice the small blonde boy peering across at him, ice-popsicle melted to the ground.

Kicking the wall with his feet, Troye grunted, his pulse racing. Energy thrummed through his veins and shivered along his arms, despite the sweltering heat. His mum would tell him off for this too. Her face would turn red and maybe she'd cry and she'd drag him back home – just for dancing. _Ballet is for girls_. Mum's boyfriend didn't even explain it, he just switched the TV off and pulled him from under his arm to sit at the table. Troye would kick his feet between the chair legs, thinking over and over how little sense it made to keep him from something so natural.

Leaping from the wall to the ground – pretending that he could pause his body mid-air, hair and skin flecked with dust like confetti or glitter – he landed just as the song ended. Panting into the fresh silence, his eyes flew open when a slow clap echoed around him. Tearing his headphones from his ears, he stared breathless at the boy applauding him; his first applause. He'd thrown his popsicle to the ground, a puddle by his feet, and was clapping frantically, eyes lit with wonder. Smiling shyly, Troye bowed.

"What was that?" The boy asked.

Tyler came back to the abandoned lot most days to watch Troye dance. Sunset and sunrise, he watched without plan or reason, as kids do. Sometimes he bought a Gameboy, other times he sat in silence. Troye got used to him being there and especially used to the applause. They didn't talk much, though Troye found himself telling Tyler about ballet. He'd stolen a book from the library about the key steps and took it with him everywhere. He danced with it open in his hands, following the instructions, or sometimes he'd give it to Tyler and tell him to read. Tyler didn't mind how Troye's entire focus centred on dance, rather than him; he was just happy to spend time with him.

Three months on, Troye arrived to see Tyler waiting for him, bouncing on his heels. Presenting his chubby hand, Troye took it curiously and let Tyler lead him away from their usual space. They trampled across barren land and along the sides of roads until the skeleton of a building appeared in front of them. Tyler skipped excitedly across to it, pushing the stems of nettles out of Troye's path as he cautiously stepped forward. It was some sort of deserted building, completely dilapidated and taken over by nature. Walking through what seemed to be the arch of a doorway, Troye looked up and his eyes widened.

There was no ceiling, it had crumbled down, but one wall still towered high, birds nestled against it. The floor was dusty and riddled in weeds, but there was the faded pattern of something shinier, swirling patterns across what looked to be marble. Dappled green light filtered through the trees and deepened in the shadows, and a large stained-glass window in the tallest wall cast a rainbow of colours down onto them. It was broken in places but Troye could picture it in all its glory, and it made his heart burst. A flap of black wings flew out from the corner and Troye ducked as the bird flew over their heads.

"Your stage," Tyler announced shyly, pulling on the sleeves of his t-shirt. Troye's eyes turned to look up at the sky, which looked so distant through the frame of the jagged walls. Tyler blushed and scratched his ear at Troye's evident delight. Spinning on the toe of his trainers, Troye laughed happily and grabbed Tyler's arm. Stumbling into Troye, his muscles tensed as Troye hugged him.

"Thank you," he said, and then he kissed Tyler's cheek. Tyler pressed his cold palm into the warm kiss as Troye danced away from him.

Tyler became a permanent prop in Troye's stage as the days passed, just as Troye became a permanent fixture in Tyler's mind. Tyler didn't know if he envied his soft prettiness or if he admired it. It was a little of both. He loved sitting beside the slanted sunlight and watching Troye dancing through it, the contours of his body highlighted and flickering as if he were underwater. And he loved how Troye's confidence in who he was encouraged his own. One day, Troye came running across the marble, hidden behind a mass of white gauze. He'd found a tutu at a thrift shop and snuck it home. Clumsily stepping into it and pulling it up to his waist, he began to turn in _piques_ and _pirouettes_ – as Tyler had heard him calling them – the skirt bouncing with him. Tyler got to his feet and smiled quietly. But his silent awe was interrupted when Troye shoved the tutu over his head. Tyler froze and held his arms up beside him. Troye clapped and laughed, telling him to 'spin around'. Tyler moved his feet awkwardly, blushing with heat. He felt on edge, as if someone was about to catch them. 'Gorgeous!' Troye called and left Tyler wearing it as he took to the window shelf he used for a _barre._ Tyler slumped back to the floor, the netted skirt flopped over his knees. As Troye practiced his turn-out and _plies_ , Tyler stroked his fingertips over the fabric and secretly thrilled at the drama of it. They folded it up by the window when the sun set, but as they walked home Tyler continued to trace his fingers over where its shape had been.

Tyler started to watch the ballet channel. He lived with his grandma and when she saw him absorbed in a production of 'La Sylphide' she stopped in her tracks. Excitedly padding to her room, she dug around in the back of her wardrobe, despite the ache in her back, until her fingers touched upon satin. Tyler was afraid to touch the pair of ballet shoes – slightly scuffed – as if they'd unravel in his hands. 'They were mine when I was a little girl,' his grandma said, stroking them. 'They've lost their ribbons, but they're still full of life.'

Tyler ran and ran to the old palace. It wasn't a palace, but Tyler had begun to think it so. There was always a palace in the stories, and there was always a prince, and Troye really would look so nice in those golden costumes. Troye's feet fit the shoes miraculously, like destiny, and they giggled together as he played around with _chasses_ and _pas de chat_. The next day, Tyler stole a pair of pink ribbons from his mother's sewing kit. Sat opposite one another, Tyler bit his lip as he threaded the needle and began to sew the ribbons in place. Troye was rambling about 'Julliard' – some school in New York a girl at school said her cousin went to – but Tyler couldn't concentrate as he kept accidentally pricking his finger. Once he was done, he went to tie the ribbons around Troye's ankles, but Troye batted his hands away, showing him how it was properly done. Tyler sat back, hugging his knees to his chest, and watched Troye from under his eyelashes. His hair was messy and damp from sweat, his old Jurassic Park t-shirt sticking a little to his waist. His black sweatpants were bunched up to his calf where his slender fingers tucked in the ends of the ribbons. It hadn't been more than a few months since they'd first met, but Troye looked older to him. Like he'd grown taller, taking up more presence. Troye wiggled his feet and looked up as Tyler crawled forward, shyly pecking his lips. Holding still, Troye stared at Tyler, and then he giggled. Softly, Tyler giggled too.

They never talked about their kisses, and two years later, aged eleven, they lay beside one another in the middle of their stage, gently kissing. It was early morning, an hour before school, and they had their backpacks dropped beside them. Their backs pressed into the cold winter floor as they tilted their heads to connect lips, brushing them in between mumbled conversation. Tyler had grown into his body now; his puppy fat had dropped off leaving a sturdier figure, a slanted smile and stronger jawline. Troye was even taller, his hair had grown curly and his skin was slightly tanned from all the dancing he did in the summer. He had become impossibly restless with his feet. He danced everywhere – beneath the school desks, when he was alone in the kitchen, bringing the groceries home – he danced when it rained and he danced when the wind blew a storm around him. He had worked tirelessly; stretching for higher _developpes_ and going over and over his _frappes_ and _jetes_. Tyler would hold his heel as he held his _arabesque_ to work on his balance, stretching his fingers into the distance.

"Meet me at the lake after school," Troye said, pulling away as Tyler smoothed a hand over his hip, leaning to kiss him deeper.

"I promised to shovel the Williams' driveway. They're paying me."

"After that."

Tyler agreed and Troye jumped up to leave for school. Tyler rolled over to face the sky, white with clouds, and dropped his hand to his chest. His pulse beat steadily and he closed his eyes.

The fallen leaves crunched icily beneath his boots when he walked to the lake, early evening. Breathing hot air into his hands, he rubbed them together and pondered over what to expect. Tyler wouldn't say he was wrapped around Troye's little finger, though those were the words his grandma had used when Tyler got home from clearing the leaves from the old palace's floor. They were friends, and friends helped each other out. It was on his list of favourite things – pleasing Troye – along with watching Troye succeed in a move he'd been struggling with, and kissing him, of course. In the back of his mind, he knew kissing wasn't a usual thing for friends to do. It was just a nice thing they shared; a special thing.

Fighting past a couple of branches, Tyler ducked to reach the clearing, and looked up to see a lone figure gliding across the lake. Tyler blinked twice, taking a moment to register the ice and the skates on Troye's feet. Troye stumbled to a stop when he saw Tyler at the top of the small hill and waved. "I found them in a skip!" He shouted, lifting one foot to show the shoe off. Tyler shuffled closer, breathing hot air into the cold. "Watch." And then Troye was off, circling the lake again. Tyler smiled dazedly and laughed when Troye went to attempt a position of _attitude_ and collapsed to his knees.

"Who taught you?" Tyler asked, poking the toe of his boot against the edge of the frozen lake. Troye clapped his gloves together and brushed off his knees.

"No one!" He announced, though in reality it had been his father. He'd also given him the skates. "Come over here." Tyler shook his head immediately. "C'mon, Ty, I won't let you fall."

"What if it breaks," Tyler worried and Troye sighed, simply holding out his arms for Tyler to come meet him. Tyler followed dutifully. Breathing heavily with fright, he pressed one shoe onto the ice and then the other, shuffling bit by bit across to Troye. Grasping his hands, cheeks flushed, Troye pulled himself up in Tyler's grip. Troye kept their gloved hands together where Tyler's were shaking, and slid a couple inches closer. Smiling in amusement as Tyler's eyes flicked side to side at the ice, Troye tightened his hold on Tyler's hand for balance and bent to kiss him. His kiss suitably distracted Tyler, until he pulled for them to start moving and Tyler gasped. "Don't-"

"Just step with me." Troye laughed as he slowly circled Tyler. Tyler watched him dance around him once, and then cautiously began to turn with him. He kept his eyes fast on Troye's face as to not look at the ice. Troye grabbed the lapels of Tyler's coat and slowed their movements even more. Softly, he began humming. It was a song Tyler had heard him sing before; 'The Dying Swan'. He caught him dancing it before too, alone in the palace, tears spilling down his cheeks. He'd called it 'a desperate passion.'

"You've never danced with me before," Troye whispered.

"I'm not dancing," Tyler replied, but Troye just smiled and turned around, leaning back against Tyler. Tyler placed his hands on his waist and let him drape his head over his shoulder. They spun slower than the sky turned dark, yet Tyler still found himself getting dizzy. Troye's melody faded into nothing and soon the cold grew bitter. Tyler pulled his coat around Troye, and felt his body sink into him.

A week later – the window in the palace frosted with ice so that crooked lines cut into the pattern – Tyler laid out a blanket on the floor. It was too cold for dancing, anyway. Though his attempts at giving Troye an umbrella when it rained had always failed. He had a flask of hot chocolate with him and another blanket to wrap around them. Bouncing his legs as he sat waiting, his heart pounded when Troye appeared at the door. Troye's eyes scanned over the blanket once, and then he hopped up to stand on the window ledge.

"I got in!" He said, waving a piece of paper above him. Standing up, and taking the flask with him, Tyler frowned.

"Got in where?"

"Julliard."

Tyler's blood turned cold. "But that's in New York..."

"I know! Isn't it great?" Troye's eyes danced over the paper he'd read a thousand times and the evening light radiated around his skin, like the sun could never set on him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tyler asked, unable to hide the hurt in his voice. Troye didn't even glance up.

"I didn't think you'd be interested."

"Interested?!" Tyler burst, but his question trailed off into silence. Troye jumped from the window and tore the blanket from the floor, muttering to Tyler over what he should dance for first showcase. Tyler watched as Troye began the steps to some choreography, the blanket lying crumpled by the dusty rocks, and hot tears pushed behind his eyes. "The Dying Swan," he bit, his heart throbbing. Troye looked up in surprise and came down from where he balanced on his toes. His lips closed softly and his face crossed with shadows. Tyler swallowed against the dryness in his throat.

"You're just going to leave?" Tyler whispered. Troye's arms sagged by his side, but he didn't move. Tyler's lip wobbled.

He loved Troye. But Troye didn't love him back....Troye loved ballet.

Numbly turning, Tyler hurried away from the old palace, dropping his flask by the side of the road. He didn't see how Troye's eyes fixed on the blanket, how silent tears made silver webs of his cheeks. How he curled up beneath it against the brick wall until the night engulfed him, his body aching against his joy. When the sun rose, the blanket held the ghost of him and a single ribbon snatched from the loose threads of his shoe.

Tyler didn't sleep that night. His eyes dried of tears and became scratchy like the dust in summer. His anger shivered from his body, leaving a gaping sadness. He knew he couldn't stop Troye; that it was shameful he even wanted to. He couldn't subject Troye to the heartbreak. Dragging his body as the morning brightened, he walked back to the palace, silent except for birdsong. His stomach twisted when he found it empty, and knotted tighter when he saw the blanket by the wall. Kicking the marble with his heel to an unsatisfying thud, his eyes caught on a whisper of pink blinking across the floor. Moving towards it, he gasped as it skipped into the air, prey to the wind. He followed it desperately until at last he caught it beneath his foot. It fought to fly free, but Tyler took it between his fingers and pocketed it before it could. Then he ran – ran and ran and ran – because his body wept with the need to tell Troye 'I love you.'

The school, the streets, the lake, his house; everywhere was empty. The library, the thrift shop... He went to the bus stop, sweating with panic. Tyler's grandmother was standing there, and Tyler ran across to her.

"Grandma-"

"He's gone." Tyler's breath halted and his grandmother pulled his head to her shoulder. "You have to let him go."

Tyler didn't even have the energy to cry. His lungs burned with the words he never got the chance to say. His grandmother blinked up at the sky, holding back tears. Patting his head, she tried not to feel guilty. For helping one boy's dreams, she'd dashed another's. But only one of their dreams could be real.

Ballet was always a tragedy. There was no 'happily ever after' on the last page. Even after encore, it ended with an empty stage and a bow.


End file.
